


Waiting Room

by cmshaw



Series: Diplomatic Community [1]
Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-01-20
Updated: 2002-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-05 07:21:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmshaw/pseuds/cmshaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm sure we can make you comfortable here in the Consulate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting Room

I sigh, scrub the back of my neck with one hand, and jitter with frustration. "Well, where the hell _is_ he, then?" I say.

Turnbull gives me that bland happy smile that seems to be his only expression other than a generic thoughtful look. "I'm afraid Constable Fraser did not leave his itinerary," he says. "If you would care to wait, I'm sure we can make you comfortable here in the Consulate. Or is there something with which I could assist you?"

I just need the goddamned file from Fraser, but I don't say so. No point in complaining about my partner to innocent coworkers. I need to finish this paperwork. I need a beer and a pizza and a game on TV. I need to get laid or at least jerk off. Well. Maybe Turnbull can help with the beer and the pizza and I can have another go at introducing Canadians to _real_ sports.

"Ah," says Turnbull. I don't think I said anything out loud -- did I? -- but Turnbull's leading me down the hallway. I crack my neck and trot off after him like a good little cop. He opens a door and waves me through, and I walk right in without looking, because that's one trustworthy-looking uniform these Mounties wear.

I'm in the bathroom. Hello? I don't even need to go, and Turnbull's walking in right behind me and shutting the door behind himself, which shoves me up against the wall. Before I can say "huh?", he shoves me up against the wall for real. I've got fancy wallpaper against my cheek and a forceful knee between my thighs and a big hot Mountie on my ass. Okay, this is a lot better than paperwork. Fraser? Fraser who?

"I trust I'm not misinterpreting the situation, Detective Vecchio?" Turnbull says in my ear.

"No," I say once I've stopped shivering. "I think you got it good." I put my hands in my crotch to start undoing my pants, and Turnbull steps back and starts making uniform-taking-off noises. It's a strange lot of snap-popping and velcro-ripping and manly grunting that I know from hearing Fraser do it a bunch of times; it never sounded this exciting with Fraser because partner plus sex equals _no_, but it looks like I got myself a nice little Mountie fetish anyway.

I get my jeans and underwear down around my knees and look over my shoulder. Turnbull's got the tunic off and the bland smile on and whoa. Are they sure this guy is a Mountie and not one of the horses? Because, jeez, I know I've been frustrated and horny and all that, but this is a lot more than I was expecting, you know? Never mind having a bad _day_, this is going to make up for having a bad week, a bad month -- hell, this might just make up for the bad _life_ I've been having for the last year, this one where I never get laid because apparently I'm saving it all up for one glorious fuck in the men's room of the Canadian Consulate. And he carries his own KY in his hat. I've got to get one of these hats. Why don't American cops get hats with places to hold condoms and stuff?

I brace my arms against the wall and bite my own shoulder as fingers open me up and wet me down. I'm so hard that the head of my dick is getting the wallpaper shiny and he's not even _in_ me yet -- Oh. Fuck. Me! Now he is. It's too much, too much, I can't _relax_ and he's not _stopping_. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! I rub my fists against the wall. My feet are sweating in my heavy boots and I feel trapped between the wall in my face and the big dick in my ass. If he stops before I get off I swear to God I'm going to kill him.

He doesn't stop. I don't know what the hell he's doing back there but I'm here to say it feels really good from this end, with lots of little jerky banging right at the angle that makes me jam my fist into my mouth to keep from screeching down the building. He's got one hand on my ass and the other on the wall bracing himself, so I get one hand down too and help hold myself open for him. That makes him lean forward and say, out of breath but still polite, "Thank you." He says it right into my ear and I shiver again, about to really get off, just about there, hot and cold and hot again all around the heat that's him fucking me just the way I really, really need it.

I think I get jizz all over the wallpaper, but I sure don't care.

Turnbull makes this small noise against the back of my neck after I come. I'm wallowing in the happiness of it, but I hear him and it turns out that's all the warning I get. I guess he's an even politer fuck than I just thought, because he waited until I got mine before starting to move the way _he_ needs it. Now it's long hard thrusts that knock me against the wall each time his body comes in. I can hardly breath. I can't brace myself against this; I have to just lean the right way and let him hold me up. It's wild, it's incredible, and when he pins me to the wall with his thighs and his dick and his chest and grunts as he's coming in me, I can't stand it. I get one hand down to my own dick and jerk once, twice, and come again. It's just a little spit of jizz that dribbles down my fingers, but boy do I feel good now.

Turnbull's heavy against me for barely a few indulgent seconds before he gets his arms around me to hold himself away from the wall. I expect him to step completely away, but he doesn't; he just stands there, still inside of me, breathing deeply and slowly against the back of my neck. I like it.

"So where'd Fraser go really?" I ask.

"The Inspector asked him to fetch her a cappuccino from a nearby cafe, Detective," Turnbull says. "I expect he'll return shortly, if indeed he has not already."

I grin. I'm starting to see how tricky a fellow Turnbull is behind that blank smile. "You know," I say, "you don't have to keep calling me 'Detective'. My name's Ray."

"Oh," he says, "but I don't want to sound forward."

I laugh, and so does he, but the really funny thing is that he's dead serious. "Okay. How about just 'Vecchio' then? Friendly yet macho."

"Then I'll certainly do so, Vecchio," he says, and apparently that's the signal to break up the party at last, because he sighs once and starts moving back. I shuffle sideways until I have room to bend down and pull up my pants, and when I look up again he's tightening his white string tie, which is usually the last step to putting the uniform on. He washes his hands, I wash mine, and it looks like we're done here.

Turnbull stops with his hand on the door and gives me a look. I try and read it, but it's just his usual polite smile. Maybe it's another Canadianism that just has to be guessed from the rest of the situation. Experimentally, I answer: "Ah."

Turnbull's smile gets marginally wider and he nods. Okay, I have no idea what I just said, but here's hoping it was a "yes" and it was answering a "wanna do this again?" I test to see if Turnbull speaks _my_ language by patting his ass as he walks out the door.

Turnbull leans over and says softly into my ear, "Thank you for visiting Canada. Please come again."

Greatness.


End file.
